There's Nobody Left
by ShellyStark
Summary: Irene pays Holmes a visit after freshly divorcing her latest husband. Turns out London is turning into Zombie central.   WARNING! There is some character death...  Originally written for Sherlocktoberfest.


**There's Nobody Left**

___Why must the weather always be so dreadful each time I return,_ Irene thought to herself as she stepped off the train, into the rain and fog. She was a free woman once more; her latest husband had fallen for all of her old tricks, making the divorce go extremely well on her part. It was with a nice amount of change and a smile on her face that she decided to pay a visit to Baker Street. She knew he would be waiting for her, welcoming her with open arms, just as he had after John and Mary's wedding. 

The station was surprisingly empty. She had only passed a handful of people, all of them rushing to board the next train out. Irene noticed a man lingering in the shadows as she approached the exit. Tall and pale, his hair seemed to be coming out in large clumps. He was watching her with a hunger in his eerie yellow eyes, slowly tilting his head from side to side, and devouring her with his haunting gaze. He took a few steps towards her, dragging his left foot slightly. Taking a few steps back, Irene reached for the weapon concealed in the arm of her dress.

"I'd stop right there if I were you," she called out with warning.  
The man stopped hobbling towards her, but his eyes continued to watch her, making her feel very uneasy. Very slowly he drew his skinny arm up his equally skinny body and with a sweeping motion, pointed towards the exit.

Never letting go of the end of her club, she carefully made her way past him, making sure not to let her guard down. There was a foul odour invading her nostrils the closer she got to him; a smell she couldn't put a name to. She watched as his colourless tongue darted out and ran across his pale lips. She could have sworn she heard him snarl as his lips curled up into a wicked grin. As soon as the door was shut behind her, she made a run for it.

The sooner she arrived at Baker Street, the better.

Sherlock Holmes sat in the far corner of the sitting room, furiously plucking away at the strings of his violin. Things had changed from bad to worse in the world outside his window.

"It won't be long now, old boy," he muttered to his furry companion resting beside his feet. "They will come for us soon or later."  
Gladstone lifted his head and looked to the door, letting out a soft growl; Sherlock's plucking came to a stop. Getting up from his armchair, he replaced the violin with his revolver, taking aim. He waited, listening to the footsteps that were coming up the steps, waiting for the door to burst open, causing him to fight for his life.

It did not.  
There was, however, a light knocking.  
"Well, that's not quite right; they aren't the type to knock."  
Reluctantly, with one hand on the knob and the other on his gun, he slowly pulled the door open.

His eyes must have been deceiving him; surely the drenched figure that stood in front of him was the woman that had left him long ago, yearning for the day she would return like an idiot. Yet, there she was and everything seemed as it should. No discolouration, no drastic weight loss, her eyes were as green as they ever were.

She looked perfectly…normal.  
Quickly he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her inside, locking the door behind him.

"You won't believe the trouble I've had," she said, walking further into the room. "There was this peculiar man at the station, and then I couldn't find a cab. Actually, I couldn't find anyone. The streets are absolutely dead. I had to walk all the way here."

"Were you followed?" he curtly asked.  
"No, I told you the streets are empty," she said, pulling the pins out of her hair, running her fingers through her long brown waves.  
"You're positive?"  
"I know enough to notice when I'm being followed Sherlock," she answered dryly.

He weaved his way through the piles of books and stray pieces of furniture, coming to a stop directly in front of her. He began to study her features again; he had to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. It would break him to kill her, but he would do it if necessary.

Irene watched him curiously as his dark eyes roamed over her.  
"Sherlock what are you-?"  
"Undress," he demanded.  
"Excuse me?" she asked, taken aback.  
"Undress, I need to examine you."  
"What on earth for?"  
"DAMNIT, WOMAN! JUST DO IT," he shouted, slamming his hand down on top of the desk.

Irene jumped, startled by his reaction, but slowly beginning to do what he had asked of her.

"All the way?" she asked quietly, once she was down to nothing but her corset.

"No, that will do." Sherlock picked up a small lantern, bringing it close to her face. He began to run it down the length of her body, arms and legs, occasionally pausing to lightly brush his rough fingers across her skin, sending electric thrills throughout her body. He pushed the hair away from her neck, his scruffy cheeks tickling hers as he leaned in to get a closer look. It took everything inside her not to throw her arms around him and hold him close, but he was looking for something, touching her for his own purposes, not for hers.

Satisfied, Sherlock set the lantern down and tossed her his tattered robe.

"I'll set your clothes by the fire to dry," he said starting to bend down to pluck them from the floor. He was stopped by a small hand.  
"Whatever happened, Sherlock? What were you looking for?" she asked, both worried and curious.  
"Cuts, scrapes." He paused for a moment, unsure if he should go on. "Bites."

"Bites? What kind of bites exactly?"  
Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his dark curls.  
"I'm not sure if I can explain properly."  
"Try," she said, cupping the side of his rugged face. "Please try."  
Sherlock nodded, placing his hand over hers and bringing it down to rest between them. He led her to the mattress he had dragged into the room. He made it a point never to leave here, unless it was absolutely necessary.  
"It began a few weeks ago," he started, pulling Irene down onto the mattress with him.  
"Watson and I had been asked to take a case. A woman was worried about the fate of her daughter after her lover had come up dead. The girl said they had been having a row, but she had claimed not to remember it. She said that one moment they were arguing and the next thing she knew he was lying on the floor with a knife in his chest. Clearly she was guilty, and I refused her my services."  
"I don't see how that explains anything," Irene interrupted.

"Please allow me to continue. The girl recalled some old tales about gypsies and the use of black magic to bring people back from the grave. If he was no longer dead, she would no longer be facing any criminal charges. She located a gypsy troupe not far from here and requested her help. The woman told her to bring his body back to the camp, but warned her that she had never attempted anything like this before and had doubts that she would be successful." Sherlock stopped, and glanced out the moonlit window, closing his eyes at the thought of what it had become.

"Well, did it work?" Irene asked, pulling his attention away from the terrors outside.

"Obviously not. She did manage to bring him back, but not as something human. He was something else; something I never thought was possible."

"Zombification?" Irene asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Precisely. Soon after he began to feed. On people. The ones he didn't finish off became the same thing he was; it didn't take long for them to take over. They prefer to hunt at night. That's why I had to check you; make sure you wouldn't become a monster before my very eyes." Sherlock's expression turned to sadness, his gaze falling to the floor.  
"Just as Watson did. I failed; failed to notice his change. I only thought it was stress brought on by marriage. By the time I caught on, it was too late." A few tears fell from the corners of his eyes. "I killed him, Irene. I killed him. The monster took over and it had to be done. Watson had been the one true friend I have ever had and it was I who had to pull the trigger."

Irene's heart ached as she hopelessly watched the strong, guarded detective break down. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she pulled him into her body, attempting to soothe his broken soul.

"It's going to get worse isn't it, spread out to other areas?" she asked once he had relaxed, running her hands through his hair.

"Yes, and I'm afraid I don't know of any way to stop it." Sherlock pulled away from her grasp, locking his deep brown eyes onto hers. He reached up and rested his palm against her cheek. "It's only us now. There's nobody left."

Irene turned her head and placed a kiss to the inside of his hand.  
"I wouldn't want to be with anyone else," she whispered, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. Sherlock tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear before letting his hand trail down to the middle of her back.  
"Neither would I," he said quietly, leaning in and capturing her lips with her own.  
"Neither would I."


End file.
